The Death Bra

Those who have read all my past posts will know that I own a Death Sofa. A sofa that has deadly shredded springs that leap out at a person and impale them in bad places.

Well, I now have added a NEW implement of torture to my life. After all, it can't all just be about pretty antiques, vintage aprons and teapots, now can it?

Please Witness Exhibit A:

There is nothing like the sensation one gets while merrily drifting through ones day when suddenly a piercing agony is felt in the chest region akin to being stabbed with an ice pick. Mere centimeters from my left ventricle, no doubt! After much excavation this fiendish curved Ninja Wire was removed and photographed as evidence.

Oh, sure, my puncture wound will heal, but what can replace the loss of my delicious Frederick's Of Hollywood Rose Ice Pink Bra? A push-up bra with no underwire is like...ice cream without the ice. A mere pool of melted goo in a bowl. Which is what my left breast looks like when separated from it's mate by gravity and space. Who can walk around the planet with one breast at waist level and the other one up under the chin somewhere? It's not right! It's sick and wrong!

And all they had to replace it with was an orange sherbet colored bra. NOT THE SAME THING, people. My name is not Miss Orange Sherbet Ponsonby! Without a signature pink bra I may lose my ability to parse sentences and ponder the incongruities of the universe.

Well, alas, that is all that I have time for today. The internet service in my area has been down for 3 days and I have lots of catching up to do!